Bip bip bip, Bop bop bop.

It’s apparently something past 9am. It’s dark and hot and there are random blinding flashes of light. I’m not exactly sure where I am. It’s possible I’m just at home at Shady Pines and having a stroke. However, I have a vodka/rocks clutched in one hand, which makes me suspect things are going to be ok.

Gloria is off trying to find some coke, after Katie Couric spent twenty minutes begging us for a line and then, when we relented, snuffled the whole fucking gram in the men’s toilet with Lauer. It was good coke too, having been, I am reliably informed, smuggled in from Peru only last week inside one of the spawn of the Jolie-Pitts. A little gritty on the nose but with fine blue notes in the upper register. I miss it already. Gloria had better get back soon, because reality is starting to intrude into the fine French electro.

Gloria is the only one in a fit state to go hunting for more drugs because her pill hasn’t kicked in yet. Her pill hasn’t kicked in yet because she keeps checking for text messages from Anderson, who promised to be here, but is a no show so far. I do hope he comes. Not only would it get Gloria back in the mood, the last time I saw him – at Splash, I seem to recall – Anderson started telling me a wonderful story about Marcus Bachmann, but didn’t have time to finish, so I still don’t know whether they ever managed to get the GI Joe action figure out again.

The evening has been a bit of a blur, dears. It’s Sandra Frazer’s birthday, so we are all in New York. We started off at a little drink thing at Gloria’s – just a few dozen of Sandra’s besties, all very casual. Gloria, as usual, had laid on the Billecart and the totty in equal measures, so when we asked Sandra what she wanted for her birthday, she pointed imperiously across the room she wanted “that”. “That” turned out to be Ryan Gosling, so we’ve spent the last twelve hours stalking the poor darling across New York.

The party was lovely, except for that bloody Angelina, who cornered me and WOULD NOT SHUT UP ABOUT HER FUCKING CHILDREN. Between that, her unresolved jealousy that I had Brad before she did, and the fact that she smells like someone dumped a bottle of patchouli oil in a birdcage, she’s almost unbearable. She latched on to our little group as we were leaving for the club, even though Gloria had one of her maids wave a little brown baby out the window to distract her. Eventually we managed to ditch her in some diner by ordering coffee and then scarpering when she went to the bathroom.

The club we’re in is, well, a club. After you’ve been to as many as I have, when you’ve seen Gina Lollobrigida ride a horse onto the dancefloor while Baryshnikov and Jagger (I’m not sure if it was Mick or Bianca) rut behind the sofa you are sitting on, when you’ve cadged speed off not one, but two, governors of Texas, when you were there to hear Frankie Knuckles play his first set at the Continental Baths, it takes more than a few lights, the cast of Jersey Shore, some wanker in a baseball cap playing Coldplay remixes and a fucking fishtank in the bathroom to impress you.

Poor little Scott Brown was standing in the queue outside (if you can imagine such a thing), and shouted at us to rescue him, but Gloria muttered something about “last year’s model” and we kept going. We saw Andrew Sullivan as we came in, but he seemed to be just sitting in the corner and alternating between Angry Birds and Grindr on his iphone. The poor dear.

Sandra finally made her move on Ryan, and if I was able to move enough to tip my head back a little I would be able to see the heels of Sandra’s strappy Bottega Venetas pressed into Ryan’s frankly spectacular bottom as it bobs up and down to the beat.

Just a minute, dears. Gloria’s back and she has the same look on her face that Maggie Gallagher gets in the presence of either Jesus or cake. I’m off to the bathroom.

Crikey. Nothing but the best for Gloria’s friends. My sinuses feel like an angel pissed on them.

Sorry that took a while – we ran into something called a “Snooki” in the bathroom who said something like “OhmygodyoulookjustlikemygrannyomgIloveyourshoesyouknowomgisthatcoke? Ihavebeenfuckinglookingforsomecokeforfuckinghours“. At first I thought we were being mugged by Charo, but Gloria explained what a Snooki is and that the poor little thing just wanted some blow. Gloria is so good at translating for the lumpenproletariat.

I carefully measured her out a line on the tank with Gloria’s white Amex, rolled up a fifty for her and then, when she was snarfing it up, I smacked her little head into the wall, grabbed back my fifty and walked out, leaving her screeching on the floor. No one says I look like their granny and gets away with it.

Anyhow, Grammy is feeling quite good, and it’s time for me to go behind the couch and see if young Ryan has any energy left.

This last track has a very strange video, but the song that kicks in at about 2.45 is a barn-burner.